


Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

by GoodandIneffable



Series: Good Omens Fic Week [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, good old fashioned lover boy, romeo and juliet - Freeform, through the ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 13:43:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20547116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodandIneffable/pseuds/GoodandIneffable
Summary: Everyone needs a best friend to help them work through their ‘crush’. Sometimes that best friend just happens to be your idol.





	Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

**Author's Note:**

> ITS STILL TECHNICALLY SEPTEMBER 6TH OKAY ITS 11:09pm IM NOT LATE I PROMISE
> 
> Also: I didn’t trust myself to even try to write in Shakespearean english so please ignore that minor whoopsie

**-1601, Globe Theatre, London**

“How is that a happy ending?!” 

“Well-“

“It’s not, that’s how!” Aziraphale whines from the chair across the room. He sets his glass of wine down and flips his way through the papers the other man has been scribbling upon for the last three weeks. 

“No, but-“

“Make the ones in love get married!”

“They do get married, but-“

“They die!!!” Aziraphale shouts. “I thought that maybe presenting you with my own experience of ages of unrequited,” he struggles for a moment with the word. “Love… would help you understand a real, good set up and end happily! I’d like to think I’ll end happily! Don’t base something on my tale and end it with tragedy!” 

“Mr. Fell-“ Shakespeare stops. “Alright. How shall it finish?”

“Orlando and Rosalind should marry- well, hold on a minute, maybe they should all marry? And then, the Duke, Duke Senior returns so Frederick is gone!”

“Have you ever married?”

Aziraphale is severely taken aback by the question. “W-Well, no, but I’ve blessed a marriage before.”

“Would you ever just, marry someone?” It’s clear that Aziraphale finds this unnecessary, so an explanation follows quickly. “PLaywriting must be plausible, and you’re my assistant, so…?”

“I suppose that makes sense…” Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. “I-” he clears his throat. “I might marry, had I the right person.”

“And who’s the right person?”

First, the thought that there is no right person dances across his mind. Then, the exactly perfect one enters and sits for a while. He chooses the more convenient gender to speak about. 

“She’s… indisposed.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We can’t marry. We both understand that fact.”

“Well, if true love-”

“No,” Aziraphale cuts him off. “It’s not true love. And even if in some way it were _true_ _love_, we can’t marry. Our… _Families_ would never allow it. If we by some chance were to marry unbeknownst to them… We’d be…” He pauses and thinks of how to phrase it in the most understandable way. “Sentenced to death as punishment.”

“Death?” Shakespeare shifts and sets the parchment titled As You Like It aside for another day and pulls out another. “Two families separated… By fued?”

“I suppose you could say so?”

**-1975, London**

“How do you woo?”

“Woo?” Crowley laughs. “I don’t woo. I awkwardly dance around the issue.”

“Love’s an issue for you, eh?”

“Listen, you’re no better,” Crowley shoots back at the man a few feet away. “Everyone thinks you’re in love with everyone else.”

“Maybe I am,” He shrugs and sets his glass back down on the piano. “How would anyone know?” 

“Now if that isn’t the truth.” Crowley sits up and shuffles over to the piano bench, setting one knee up on it. “How would you tell someone you’re in love with them?”

“How would _ I _ or what would I suggest _ you _ to do?”

“Absolutely fuck off.”

“Crowley, darling, you’re overthinking everything,” He places his hands over the keys and plays a little melody. “Just tell him you love him.”

“I don’t love him!” Crowley hisses, then, after a moment, takes a deep breath. “But how would one go about doing that if they did love him?”

“You know him better than I do. What does he like?”

Crowley thinks over it. “He likes food, the Ritz. He likes books a lot, Heaven, love… He’s old fashioned.”

“Mm, isn’t that sweet.” The tune shifts and he hums along.

“Nothin’ I wouldn’t do-” The music stops and Freddie moves to scratch a few lyrics into the pad beside him. “Oi!”

“I’d like- I’d like for you and I to go romance- romancing? Romancing,” He bops along and finds himself quickly writing a song about Crowley's ugly pining. “Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine… precisely…”

“I beg of you, spare me from this torture,” Crowley whines. “I don’t love him!!”

“Oh, what a sad boy,” He laughs. “You do.”

“Even-” Crowley sucks back the words, then gives up because he knows either way they’ll be coming out into existence. “Even if I did, I couldn’t tell him. We’re mortal enemies, supposed to be, anyways. He’s not supposed to love a de- He could never care for me, not like you think.”

“Well, there’s only one way to find out now, isn’t there?” That’s the last time before 1991 the two ever speak of Crowley and Aziraphale’s relationship. Crowley avoids the eighth song on _ A Day at the Races _after then. 

Sometimes, alone in the Bentley, he likes to think that Freddie can hear him. Sometimes he talks about how dinner with the angel went, or how nice he looked that day, and sometimes he talks about the perfect way to say he loves him. 

Roughly twenty-eight years later, the perfect opportunity arises in mere distraction. The Bentley had upgraded from _ The Best of Queen _ to _ The Platinum Collection _ in 2001, so the medley doesn’t really bother Crowley or his single rider. It knows better than to play the twelfth track. Well, rather, Crowley _ thought _ it knew better. 

_ “I can dim the lights and sing you songs full of sad things, we can do the tango just for two…” _

Crowley panics, tensing and gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles are a blistering white. 

“I’ve never heard this one before,” Aziraphale smiles lightly and reaches to turn it up. “I quite like it.” 

Crowley grunts.

“Have you heard it?”

He grunts again, leaving Aziraphale to sway in his seat a little bit. 

_ “Dining at the Ritz, we’ll meet at nine (one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight) precisely…” _

“Oh, it’s like us!” 

Crowley’s so red he swears his body’s about ready to spew blood from his ears. He nods slightly. 

“How sweet. I liked that song, such a lovely little story.” 

Crowley takes a shuddering breath and nods, his heart hammering loudly. “Yeah.”

_ If only he knew, _ he thinks. 

_ If only that truly was us, _ Aziraphale thinks. 


End file.
